Dear Julie,
Thank you for the inspiration to take our teatime to another level. My son was so keen on the idea that he baked scones for our first poetry tea, cut and arranged fresh flowers for the table, and even made up his own poetry during the session. Needless to say, I was a happy mummy! Our first trial has been so successful that my son wants to do it every day if possible.
~Hwee
The Tiger Chronicle
Images from The Tiger Chronicle. Used with permission.
Image by Muffet
Yesterday I dug through all the old homeschool notebooks in my basement. I paged through copywork, dictation, freewrites, lists, illustrations with written narrations, nature journals, reproductions of paintings, charcoal drawings of African violets, topics for poems (like, “How loud my dad snores”), pages filled with revision notes, math and science pages (I found evidence that we did, in fact, study the scientific method, no matter what my kids say), journal entries, an original script for Gilgamesh, a novella modeled after Emma, handwriting pages, lap books, posters…
It’s all there—our homeschool in paper form.
I even found my journal pages from the months when I began Brave Writer and was writing The Writer’s Jungle. I was fascinated to read my thoughts—worried that I might not have the right angle, wanting to be sure that what I wrote would be useful and a fresh take on writing/coaching, really engaged in examining what it feels like on the inside to be a writer.
In the middle of all these paging-throughs, I read the following in my journal:
“Better tub and scrub the little guys. They played endlessly in the creek the last two days and came home gloriously muddied. Just what a mother loves to see. Caitrin kept putting a muddy hand to her 24/7 headband and had to suffer separation anxiety last night while it sat out to dry after a thorough soaking. Back glued to her head today though.
“Liam is all boy about these things. I told him it was okay to get dirty. He took me fully at my word and brought home feet so thick with mud that I couldn’t see shoes underneath. Then he dribbled bits all over my house. Jacob made “Indian clay pots” that he left to dry… on my computer desk. I revel in this stuff, though. It’s far superior to TV and makes me feel that they are having a real childhood after all.” (February 25, 2000)
It heartened me to read that in the midst of everything else I was doing/thinking about (starting a business, writing a book, homeschooling every day), the highlight of one of those days was mud everywhere—head to toe, in my office, all over the house, up and down my kids’ bodies, wrecking shoes and clothes, requiring baths in the afternoon.
That’s parenting, that’s the whole reason we signed up to have children!
In our eagerness as parents to be dutiful, to foster learning, to make a difference in the world, to be “good parents” raising “good children,” I want to remind you: keep your eye on the ball.
Ball = kids.
Ball = happy.
Ball = mess.
Ball = wet.
Ball = serendipity.
Ball = living in this moment, today.
Ball = celebrating childishness.
Ball = gifts of mud pots on your computer desk.
Ball = smiling back at smiling children.
Ball = noticing, remembering, valuing, honoring.
Today: value your children as children.
Then write “today” somewhere, and tuck it away… and like a time capsule, your preserved memory in words will come back to keep you company years from now, when you need it, when you’ve forgotten about today, when the house is all tidy and empty and silent and obedient and no longer muddy.
Cross-posted on facebook.
Image by Tammy Wahl. Used with permission.
Describe your mom.
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Image by Tammy Wahl. Used with permission.
Left to right: my daughters Johannah and Caitrin, my mom, and me
So I’m thinking about mothers.
I remember sitting at United Dairy Farmers eating mint chip ice cream with a bunch of my homeschooling friends after support group one night. Someone made a comment about her mother. A derisive one. A “we all know this is true” kind of off-the-cuff critique. It was made with warmth and humor, though the sentiment of frustration was real.
What followed was a cascade of “knowing” remarks about our mothers.
“She’s so controlling.”
“She never did approve of homeschooling so I just try not to talk about it.”
“My mother—she still doesn’t get it.”
“My mom treats me like I’m fifteen! It’s like I never grew up.”
On and on the comments went. Most of the time there was laughter, but behind the laughs I knew there was pain. These daughters had memories of not being heard or understood. They had ongoing evidence that the choices they were making today didn’t meet with their mother’s approval. Ouch. Even if the daughters loved their moms (and they did, absolutely!), they still felt that sting that comes from parental disapproval.
I listened along. The conversation shifted at one point to kids. Now we were griping good-naturedly about how our kids were making ridiculous choices or were resisting our better ideas or couldn’t fulfill their responsibilities and we were put upon to do things for them.
In one of those “Matrix-style” moments, I saw reality split.
We were mothers, resenting our mothers, for not allowing us to make our own choices, for not respecting our skill to live our own lives, for thinking they knew better than we did all the time, and for conveying it in a way that caused pain.
On the flip side, our kids were behaving in ways that we didn’t like and had plans for the future we found unnerving and they didn’t like our advice. We were belittling our kids among ourselves… which made me wonder if that belittlement wasn’t also felt by those same kids, like these adults felt about their own childhoods.
After some time went by, I finally spoke up.
“You know, I hope our kids don’t talk about us the way we just talked about our moms. And I hope we don’t behave to our kids in the ways we resent in our moms.”
Of course, I have a really awesome mom. I don’t spend much time resenting or talking negatively about her. She modeled for me what it means to be supportive and to trust me, and she gives space for me to be who I need to be. I feel like an adult around her. Consequently, I try to be that for my kids because I want them saying good stuff about me to their friends.
So as Mother’s Day approaches, maybe ask yourself: “How do I want my kids to talk about me behind my back?” And then adjust how you mother and love accordingly.
Cross-posted on facebook.
